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Poem: Come, Come, Come... (Version 3)
So, I decided to try and take the poem in a different direction. As before, it starts off strong, but everything kind of gets weak towards the back end. I didn't do anything to improve the form, really; it's still kind of free-floating. I'll tweak it again this weekend, maybe go through a couple more drafts before I send it off. The Nov. 15 deadline is rapidly approaching...
**************
Come, Come, Come...
"Come,"
he cried, and then her name
garbled and tossed at a closed windowshade
on the corner of Allendale and West.
Over and over, over and over,
until the fire in his stomach
emigrated to his throat
and burned his voice down to a whisper.
So then he called softly,
over and over, over and over,
chanting her name in a fever invocation
he half-thought, half-dreamed she would answer
but she never came.
He went on chanting, calling, thinking,
sinking against the lamppost,
in the same spot she said "Yes."
and "Goodbye."
He stared until the sunlight became the streetlamps
and collected into itself again hours later.
He stared until his legs buzzed and died,
until he moved them enough so they resurrected.
He stared until he stood and stumbled off
into that newly condensed sunshine,
wiping at the saliva that collected on his chin.
"Come,"
said the diner, and he obeyed.
It was a place where the ghosts of the living came
to compare chains and sheets.
Coffee here was made for cream hauntings,
and eggs were made to fade away
into a texture that felt good wandering his fingers.
He would sit there and roll his breakfast special
and in the yellow and pepper black
he would see:
a set of teeth laughing between red lips, and
the glare of chestnut brown under diner-light, and
the way she draped under his favorite sweater, and
sometimes, when her ghost liked his eggs very much
she would hurt him so bad
he would catch his tears in her grease
and his stomach would tell him,
"You shouldn't have tried that egg."
He would stand and stumble,
but she would follow him,
a nightmare galloping
while similarly dogged spectres
waited for their own divinations.
"Come..."
her ghost would say, and she would show him
everything she touched in microvision.
His feet would stammer past the scent of oranges
and a flash of chocolate the same color of her eyes, and
he would remember everything;
the poltergeists that made his head untidy
rode him through streets and vague, familiar apartments
over and over, over and over.
His feet would work and not and work
until he found his way back under that lamppost,
the same spot where she said "I love you."
and "No."
Back on the corner of Allendale and West,
back under the shade that never opened,
He would call
and she wouldn't come
and he would stumble, and stumble, and stumble...
**************
Come, Come, Come...
"Come,"
he cried, and then her name
garbled and tossed at a closed windowshade
on the corner of Allendale and West.
Over and over, over and over,
until the fire in his stomach
emigrated to his throat
and burned his voice down to a whisper.
So then he called softly,
over and over, over and over,
chanting her name in a fever invocation
he half-thought, half-dreamed she would answer
but she never came.
He went on chanting, calling, thinking,
sinking against the lamppost,
in the same spot she said "Yes."
and "Goodbye."
He stared until the sunlight became the streetlamps
and collected into itself again hours later.
He stared until his legs buzzed and died,
until he moved them enough so they resurrected.
He stared until he stood and stumbled off
into that newly condensed sunshine,
wiping at the saliva that collected on his chin.
"Come,"
said the diner, and he obeyed.
It was a place where the ghosts of the living came
to compare chains and sheets.
Coffee here was made for cream hauntings,
and eggs were made to fade away
into a texture that felt good wandering his fingers.
He would sit there and roll his breakfast special
and in the yellow and pepper black
he would see:
a set of teeth laughing between red lips, and
the glare of chestnut brown under diner-light, and
the way she draped under his favorite sweater, and
sometimes, when her ghost liked his eggs very much
she would hurt him so bad
he would catch his tears in her grease
and his stomach would tell him,
"You shouldn't have tried that egg."
He would stand and stumble,
but she would follow him,
a nightmare galloping
while similarly dogged spectres
waited for their own divinations.
"Come..."
her ghost would say, and she would show him
everything she touched in microvision.
His feet would stammer past the scent of oranges
and a flash of chocolate the same color of her eyes, and
he would remember everything;
the poltergeists that made his head untidy
rode him through streets and vague, familiar apartments
over and over, over and over.
His feet would work and not and work
until he found his way back under that lamppost,
the same spot where she said "I love you."
and "No."
Back on the corner of Allendale and West,
back under the shade that never opened,
He would call
and she wouldn't come
and he would stumble, and stumble, and stumble...